


a rock and a hard place

by la_topolina



Series: Found Magic [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Domestic Violence, Family, Family Drama, Gen, One Shot, POV Petunia Evans Dursley, Severitus | Severus Snape is Harry Potter's Parent, Severus Snape Adopts Harry Potter, ficwip, ficwip 5k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25385776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_topolina/pseuds/la_topolina
Summary: Raising four-year-old Harry Potter alongside her own son with little support has Petunia at her wit's end. One afternoon a pair of mysterious strangers approach her with an offer that would rid her of Harry forever. But will this devil's bargain truly free her--or will it bury her for good?
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Petunia Evans Dursley & Harry Potter, Petunia Evans Dursley & Severus Snape
Series: Found Magic [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894882
Comments: 27
Kudos: 308
Collections: #ficwip 5k





	a rock and a hard place

The water scalded Petunia’s hands as she washed up the breakfast dishes, but she didn’t mind the pain. The chemically floral scent of the detergent and the repetitive movement of scrub, rinse, dry, repeat, gave her a moment of respite from her rambunctious charges. Any minute now Dudley and Harry would be crashing into the kitchen, screaming and interrupting her peace. They’d been fighting all morning, but every time she separated them, they inevitably came together; polar opposites attracted by some perverse magnetic force.

She let the water out of the sink and stood there staring at it spiraling down the drain with a ominous slurping sound. Vernon wouldn’t be happy if the pipes backed up again. She dried her hands on a threadbare kitchen towel, grimacing at the sight of her red, wrinkled skin. Her long-fingered hands were the only part of her that were truly lovely. She’d have to be more careful about fitting in the nightly routine of lotion and gloves. It would be a shame to let that one, perfect part of herself go.

“Mummy!” shrieked Dudley, running into the kitchen.

“What is it, dear?” she asked wearily.

He grabbed hold of her skirt with his plump fists. “Harry! He’s a dragon and he’s going to eat me!”

“He’s not a dragon and he’s not going to eat you.”

Harry came roaring into the room, his spindly arms over his head and his fingers bent into claws. Dudley screamed again and ran behind his mother, twisting her skirt around her legs and burying his face in it. She slapped at him reflexively. It seemed to her that the children were always pawing at her and hanging on her, and she couldn’t stand it.

“That’s enough Dudley!” she shouted over the din. “Harry, stop it or no lunch!”

Harry ignored her and continued to chase his cousin. Dudley released her skirt, and the two of them started running circles around her, roaring and screaming. Her heart started pounding, and her blouse was sticking to her from the heat of the day and the dishwashing. She put her hands over her ears and fought the urge to scream until she was dizzy with the effort.

“Harry, go to your cupboard!” she cried, desperate to stop the infernal noise.

The words came out in an angry snarl, and the boys stopped dead in their tracks. Dudley’s lower lip started to tremble, and Harry gave her a long, solemn look before retreating to the tiny room under the stairs. Petunia hated Harry’s stoic stares more than she hated his exuberance. It was as though Lily were accusing her of some crime from beyond the grave.

Shaking off the imagined judgement, she scooped up Dudley and swung him around until he was no longer in danger of starting to wail. Then she set him down in the living room with a stack of plastic duplos and built animals for him until he was engrossed enough that she could slip back into the kitchen to make the boys’ luncheon. The early August afternoon was far too hot for her to even think about eating, but she knew the boys would be whining for food within the hour.

Once she had them both set up at the table with cheese, hard boiled eggs, and sliced peaches, she took a large bowl and her glass of lemon water out to the garden for a few moments of peace. The tomato plants were heavy with fruit, the basil was running riot between them, and she knelt down on the earth to fill her basket with the bounty. Cold tomato basil soup would be just the thing for dinner, and for a quarter of an hour she could breathe easy, her hands in the soil, and only bird songs filling her ears.

She dawdled on her way back to the house, the shouting from within making her drearily slow her steps. Why was it that the boys did nothing but shout? She didn’t so much mind the messes they made (as long as she could get them cleared away before Vernon—who _did_ mind—got home) but the constant _noise_ set her teeth on edge.

“You can do this, Petunia. Just get them through lunch and then they can watch the telly for an hour and you can read your book,” she muttered to herself as she went back into the kitchen.

“Mummy, somebody’s been ringing the boordell,” shouted Dudley excitedly.

“What was that dear?” she asked, setting the basket on the counter and washing her hands.

Dudley didn’t answer, preferring to dash into the other room. When she followed him, she found both Dudley and Harry standing on the sofa, peering through the lace curtains to see who had come to visit.

“Boys, go back and finish your lunch,” she said sharply. “Now.”

The boys paid her no attention, and as the doorbell started to ring again, she decided it would be faster simply to deal with the unwanted guests than to argue. She yanked the door open, but instead of a solicitor or the mailman, two women stood facing her. One she vaguely recognized, a white-haired matron wearing a faded, but neat, dress. The other wore an old-fashioned tartan, and peered at her haughtily through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

“May I help you?” Petunia asked.

“Good afternoon Mrs Dursley,” said the tartan-clad woman in a stern voice kissed with a Scottish burr. “We’ve come to speak to you about young Master Potter.”

There was only one way that these odd women could know about her nephew, and Petunia felt her hands go cold.

“I don’t think now is a good time,” Petunia said. “Perhaps another day.”

She moved to close the door, but it stuck fast.

“Now, if you please, Mrs Dursley,” the Scotswoman said. “I assure you we won’t take much of your time.”

Petunia wanted to tell them to go to hell, but she knew what came of arguing with _those_ kinds of people.

“In that case, won’t you come in?” she said waspishly.

“Thank you, we will.”

Petunia stepped back as the women entered the house. There was something about the Scotswoman’s manner that made her feel like a child caught doing something naughty. But she drew herself up to her full height, and ushered them into the kitchen. The boys watched with wide eyes, but she was careful not to give the intruders the chance to speak to them.

“Won’t you please sit down?” she said, quickly clearing the boys’ plates and putting the kettle on for tea. “I’ll just settle the boys down with their afternoon program, and be right with you.”

The Scotswoman started to say something, but Petunia didn’t wait to hear it. As she quickly turned on the telly and found the afternoon children’s hour, her mind was spinning, trying to guess what the women wanted. If they really were the freaks she feared, it could be nothing good.

“Stay here and watch your program while Mummy has a chat with her guests,” Petunia said, trying to sound as though nothing was wrong.

“But I didn’t finish my food,” Dudley said.

“Mummy will make you another lunch after her company leaves. Now sit here and be quiet.” She glared at Harry, who stared passively back at her. Did he know what was going to happen? “Both of you. Or else.”

Thankfully, the boys didn’t follow her back into the kitchen; and she had a few moments of bustle preparing the tea and pouring it. When she was finally seated at the table between the frosty women (there was no mistaking the contempt with which they looked at her) Petunia felt her nerves come rushing back, and she gripped her tea cup to keep her hands from shaking.

 _Breathe, Petunia. Just breathe._ “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me,” Petunia said, amazed at how steady her voice was. “You know me, but I don’t know who either of you are.”

“One might think you’d recognize your own neighbor,” the Scotswoman said. “But never mind that. This is Mrs Arabella Figg, and I am Professor Minerva McGonagall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

Petunia shivered at the heathen name. “A pleasure to meet you both, I’m sure. Mrs Figg, you do seem familiar. I’m sorry not to have made your acquaintance before today. I’m afraid the boys keep me running day and night.”

“So I’ve seen,” Mrs Figg said in a tone that bespoke her disapproval.

“What do you mean by that?” Petunia demanded. “What cause have you to go spying on your neighbors?”

“Mrs Dursely,” Professor McGonagall said, “being as you are so busy, let us be frank. You know as well as we that Harry Potter is no common boy.”

Petunia shivered. “That may be so, but he’s being raised to be a good boy. A proper boy. He needs have nothing to do with the likes of you.”

Mrs Figg scoffed loudly. “Because he’s so much better off being screamed at and beaten by your oafish husband?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. How we discipline the boy is our business,” Petunia blustered.

Professor McGonagall set down her tea cup with a sharp rattle and pulled her wand out of her sleeve. Before Petunia could object, the witch flicked it at the door to the cupboard under the stairs. Harry’s bed was in full view beneath the cobwebs. His bed sheets were all awry, and his tattered teddy bear’s head was squashed from being caught between the edge of the mattress and the door.

“We are making it our business, Mrs Dursley,” Professor McGonagall said.

“He’s my nephew!” Petunia’s eyes stung with tears of shame and frustration. “I’ll raise him as I see fit.”

“Mrs Figg and I have watched you raise the boy as you saw fit for nearly three years now. It could not be more obvious that you desire to be relieved of your burden.”

“Where is he to go? I was told by that mad Professor Dumbledore that he had to stay here for his own protection,” Petunia countered, even as she wondered why she was bothering to object. Hadn’t she spent the last two and a half bloody years wishing every day that Harry would cease to be her problem?

“There is someone who can serve as guardian to the boy. If you agree to our terms, then you need not worry any longer about the fate of Harry Potter. You need never hear of him again,” Professor McGonagall said.

“What terms?” Petunia asked.

“There is a spell you must perform with Harry’s new guardian. It will extend the magical protection that Harry enjoys under your roof to his new home by making you and his new guardian blood siblings,” the professor explained.

A wave of panic rolled through Petunia. “Absolutely not. Besides, I can’t do magic anyway. I thought you knew that.”

“You need do nothing but participate. It will take less than ten minutes, and will leave you and your family free to live as you see fit.”

Professor McGonagall’s words were perfectly polite, but Petunia could hear the disdain echoing in them.

“It would be in everyone’s best interest if you at least thought about it, Mrs Dursley,” said Mrs Figg. “Give it a few days, talk it over with your husband.”

“Yes, you needn’t decide this instant,” Professor McGonagall said. “Simply send word to Mrs Figg in the coming week, and she will know how to contact me with your decision.”

The women gazed at Petunia with such stern authority that she felt it impossible to defy them.

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”

“Very good, Mrs Dursley,” Professor McGonagall replied. “We won’t take anymore of your time. Thank you for the tea.”

She murmured an automatic pleasantry and accompanied the women to the door. The boys hopped up from their place by the telly to climb on the sofa for a better view. She had nearly gotten rid of her unwanted guests, when the question she probably should have asked earlier popped out of her mouth.

“Who is this guardian you mentioned?” Petunia said, for some strange reason dreading the answer.

Mrs Figg and Professor McGonagall exchanged a closed look before the latter replied.

“He is a former classmate of your sister and a colleague of mine. His name is Professor Severus Snape.”

*****

Petunia spent the first few days after this baleful visit on pins and needles. She jumped at every unexpected noise, and found the boys’ rough-housing even more unbearable than usual. But when a week had gone by and the witches had not returned to transform her into a toad (or whatever they were actually planning to do with their spell) she began to cautiously let down her guard. Give Harry to that Awful Boy? Send him into _that_ world—the world that she’d been shut out of? She’d be more likely to send her nephew to the moon than to Hogwarts.

As one week became two, and still no witches’ coven descended on her doorstep, Petunia put the whole bloody business out of her mind. The boys and the relentless heat continued to oppress her spirits, and one morning she dragged the lot of them down to the play park. Dudley whined the entire way there, pulling on her hand and complaining that his feet hurt. Harry seemed keen enough about the unusual adventure that he walked obediently next to her, but this show of good behavior only irritated her spirits, as it put her own son’s tantrum into sharper focus by comparison.

When they reached the park, the children made for the swings and the slides without a backwards look. Petunia sat primly on a bench, and pulled the latest Ellis Peters novel out of her bag. It was considerably cooler within the pale of the shaded park than it had been on the walk there. She dearly hoped that the boys would both leave her to read in peace and wear themselves out enough to actually nap after lunch.

She’d been engrossed in Brother Cadfael’s deductions for more than a chapter when she gradually became aware of someone watching her. She looked up to check on the boys, who were currently occupied with the swings (Harry was propelling his swing unnaturally high for a boy his age, and Dudley was red-faced with effort as he tried fruitlessly to keep up). The park was otherwise empty, but as she turned to glance over her shoulder, she saw the intruder.

He was dressed all in black from polished shoes, to trousers, to buttoned shirt with a strange Chinese-style collar, to sunglasses. His stringy hair was pulled back from his sallow face, but his hooked nose and long-fingered hands marked him as the person she least wanted to talk to. She hoped for a moment that this was some ugly coincidence, and he would pass by the park. This was a vain hope, for he entered the grounds and stalked towards her bench like a lazy cat prowling towards its prey. She stuck her nose back in her book and did her best to ignore him, remaining silent even when he sat down on the other end of the bench. Several minutes ticked by while she waited for him to say something, that she might have the pleasure of ignoring him. But he simply sat, watching her in irreverent silence.

At last she could stand the suspense no longer. She snapped the book shut, and turned to glare at the Awful Boy.

“What do you want, Mr Snape?” she demanded crisply.

His thin lips twisted into a mocking smile. “Why so formal, Tuney?” he asked. “And without so much as a good morning after all these years? You cut me to the quick.”

Her heart started to pound as her temper rose. “Don’t you dare call me that.”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs Dursley,” he replied with false gallantry. “But if you wish to continue in this vein, it’s _Professor_ Snape. Mr Snape is my father.”

“And how are your parents?” she asked pointedly.

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Your son is the spitting image of his father.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said.”

She wanted to box his ears and wipe the smug look off his face, but her instincts warned her that he would not take kindly to being used in that fashion. Much as she tried to dismiss him as beneath her on every level, she’d always been a little afraid of Severus Snape, even when they'd been children together. The rail-thin man who sat before her now radiated a confidence in his powers that disturbed her deeply.

“I know why you’re here,” she said accusingly.

“Do you?”

“Yes, and I won’t do it. Harry is just fine where he is. I shudder to think what kind of a freak he’d turn out to be if _you_ raised him.”

“Mrs Dursley, let’s not waste time pretending you give a rat’s tail for Harry Potter.”

“Of course I care for him! He’s my sister’s child.”

Snape took off his sunglasses, and his black eyes showed such contempt that she could not help shrinking from him.

“And did you care for him last night when you let that Muggle husband of yours beat the boy black and blue? I wonder at your audacity, bringing him out in public today. What will the neighbors think?”

“How dare you!”

“If one didn’t know better,” he continued mercilessly, “one would think you have every intention of killing the boy via neglect.”

“Stop it.”

“One blow too many to the head—and on such a small boy—might relieve you of your burdens very neatly. Although hiding the crime would be quite another matter.”

“And you think you can do better?” She was gasping for air and twisting her paperback in her hands, nearly breaking the spine. “I think you know a thing or two about beatings. The first time Harry tries your patience you’d be after him with a switch too. Or with some voodoo trick that will do the job even more easily.”

Somehow she knew she’d crossed a dangerous line. The temperature between them plummeted despite the midday heat, and when he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper.

“I would _never_ beat a child.”

“So you say,” she said petulantly.

“Mrs Dursley,” he continued in that awful, quiet voice, “perhaps you intend to get your revenge on all of us by taking it out of your nephew's hide.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But she did know—he was giving voice to the darkest part of her heart, and she trembled to hear it spoken aloud.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“And I might not know the laws in the land of the freaks, but England it’s illegal to spy private citizens.”

He ignored her jab. “Admit it. Every time you or that fat pig of a husband lash out at the boy, you’re getting some of your own back. I haven’t forgotten the letter you wrote to Dumbledore, begging to join us at school.”

“You shouldn’t have read that letter.”

“It feels good, doesn’t it? Revenge I mean.”

“You’re an evil man.”

He let out a laugh rusty with malice. “Your sister died to save her son. You remember her by locking the boy in a closet at night—and you call _me_ evil?”

“Be quiet!”

“No. Not until you agree to give me the boy. Until then I will haunt you day and night.”

She believed him, and she turned away from his stoney gaze, her mind furiously searching for some means of escape. Her eyes fell on Harry, still swinging higher than he ought. As the swing reached its apex, the child let go, flinging himself out of its seat. He hung in the air for an instant longer than anyone could naturally do, and he landed lightly, glowing with pride. In that moment, all his resemblance to his stupid father fled, and Petunia could only see Lily in her nephew’s green eyes. Something inside her broke; she could feel it snapping in her heart.

“I’ll do it,” she said dully.

“What was that?” Snape demanded.

“I said I’ll do it. You can have him. He belongs in your world anyway.”

Snape’s left eyebrow twitched, but otherwise his face was dreadfully impassive. “I’m glad that you’ve decided to see reason. Come, we will do it now.”

“Here?” she squeaked.

“Afraid of being caught with your hand in the cauldron? No, your kitchen will suffice.”

She was too tired to argue. “Fine. Let’s…let’s just get it over with.”

*****

Professor McGonagall and Mrs Figg were waiting for them on the door step when Petunia, Snape, and the boys reached home. Dudley was clinging to his mother’s skirt, terrified of the strange man, but Harry watched Snape curiously from behind his taped glasses. The other women made way for Petunia to unlock the front door, and then they filed into the living room, solemn as mourners at a funeral.

“You knew I would agree?” asked Petunia sourly.

“Severus can be very persuasive,” Professor McGonagall replied.

Petunia bristled at this, but decided not to comment. “I’ll go pack Harry’s things.”

She went upstairs before anyone could object, in search of Lily’s old suitcase. As she bustled from the closet in the unused bedroom to the cupboard under the stairs, she heard Snape and Professor McGonagall talking to Harry, but she didn’t bother to listen to anything they were saying to him. She neatly tucked her nephew’s clothes and a few books that Dudley hated into the case, along with Harry’s tattered teddy bear, and the one photograph of his parents that had been rescued from the rubble of their house. Lily's smiling face appeared to be speaking to her, but she turned it over so she wouldn't have to look at it. When all was ready, she snapped the suitcase shut, and brought it into the living room. She felt numb from head to toe, and while she thought vaguely that this lack of response was somehow shameful, she could not bring herself to feel any emotion at all.

“Here are his things. Dudley, say good-bye to your cousin,” she said.

“Not quite yet, Mrs Dursley,” Professor McGonagall said. “We’ve still the matter of the blood bond to attend to.”

Petunia had been hoping to skip that part. “What about the children? I can’t very well mind them and do magic.”

“Fortunately, you will be required neither to mind them, nor to do magic,” Snape replied.

“Come here boys, and we’ll read a little story,” said Mrs Figg.

Petunia didn’t like the way that Harry and Dudley both joined the old woman on the sofa without question, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it. She left them to Mrs Figg and joined the witch and the wizard, trying not to think of what Vernon would say if he knew they were about to do _that_ in his very own kitchen. Snape was already at the counter, stirring a beaker of a bubbling green liquid and muttering strange words under his breath. A drinking horn that looked like something out of _Beowulf_ sat next to the beaker. If Petunia hadn’t been so numb, she might have been afraid, but if any emotion was attempting to break through her mental fog, it was curiosity.

Snape finished his stirring and nodded to Professor McGonagall. The witch picked up the drinking horn, and he poured the liquid into it. When it was full, he took it into his hands, raised it to Petunia, and arched a sardonic eyebrow.

“To you, dear sister,” he sneered, and drank.

She accepted the horn from him when he finished, though she ought to have recoiled in horror.

“No, brother,” she shot back, “to you.”

Before she could think better of it, she drank deeply of the blood-warm brew. It tasted of ginger and basil, and stung her throat. It coiled in her stomach, swirling like a whirlpool, but she thought she could keep it down. The idea of vomiting in front of Severus Snape was too humiliating to bear.

“Hold your hands out,” Professor McGonagall ordered as she took the horn from Petunia.

Snape did so, looking grave, and Petunia hesitantly extended hers as well. Professor McGonagall cut a shallow gash on their palms almost before Petunia registered the silver blade in the witch’s hand. Before she could protest with more than a startled yelp, Snape had clasped their hands together. A burning sensation radiated between them, as though someone was holding their hands to a fire. Petunia blinked furiously, determined not to cry in front of these _freaks_ , until her eyes locked with Snape, and something even more strange began to happen.

As she looked into those inky depths, she no longer saw her neat little kitchen. Instead she seemed to be huddled in the corner of a shabby, dirty one. A man and a woman were arguing fiercely in the other room, and she was terrified that they would come and find her. This scene melted into another place and time, where she was running through the hallways of a great castle, a pack of laughing boys on her heels. Then she was lying on a threadbare bed, pointing a wand up at the ceiling and shooting down the flies that buzzed overhead.

By the time she realized she was somehow reading Snape’s mind, it was over. He let go of her hands so quickly that she stumbled, and Professor McGonagall had to catch her arm to steady her.

“It’s done,” the witch said. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs Dursley.”

Petunia nodded her head, too bewildered to think of anything sharp to say. Snape was avoiding her eyes, and she wondered wildly if he’d been able to read her thoughts as well. And if he had—what had he seen? Still pondering this final humiliation, she allowed Professor McGonagall to usher her back into the living room. Dudley was snoring on the sofa, exhausted from the events of the morning. Harry looked up at them, and Petunia noticed that his glasses were no longer taped together.She reflected bitterly how easy it must be to fix a small child’s glasses with magic when he broke them every other week.

“Harry, it’s time to go,” Snape said in a voice that was stern, but not unkind. “Say good-bye to your aunt.”

Harry slid off the sofa, but went to his suitcase instead of his aunt. He tugged at the latch unsuccessfully, until Snape gave an impatient snort and flicked his wand at the thing to open it. Harry plucked out the teddy bear, and brought it to Petunia, holding it up to her until she took it from his little hands.

“Good-bye Auntie Tuney,” Harry said.

“Good-bye Harry,” she replied. “Behave yourself.”

Harry nodded and put his hand in Snape’s, and the two of them began to follow Mrs Figg and Professor McGonagall out of the Dursleys’ lives, presumably forever. On the threshold Snape paused, set down the suitcase, and turned back to Petunia.

“Petunia,” he said in the same tone he’d used with Harry, “if you should ever decide you wish to leave this life, you have only to write to me and I will do what I can to help you.”

“Why on earth would you bother yourself with that?” she said indignantly, even as a mad urge to beg him to take her and Dudley with him choked her.

“Because, now you are my sister.”

She wanted to laugh at him, but that mad part of her wouldn’t allow it, as though it were afraid of shutting this door completely. Instead she simply pursed her lips and nodded once her understanding. There was nothing more to be said between them, so he picked up the suitcase and led Harry out of the house. As she closed the door after them, a rush of panic went through her, and she paced nervously from room to room, waiting for it to pass. At last she found herself back in the kitchen. The gashes on her hands had mysteriously disappeared, so she filled the sink to wash up the breakfast dishes. Anything to pretend that life was as it should be.

When the sink was full, she realized she was still gripping Harry’s teddy bear. She set it on the counter, and started the mundane ritual of wash, rinse, dry, repeat. The bear's button eyes stared up at her until her own eyes blurred with tears she could no longer contain. She snatched up the toy in her red, wrinkled hands, and sank to the floor, clutching it to her breast with far more care than she’d ever been able to show its former owner.

She’d been left behind—again.


End file.
